I spent a lot of time flying in the last four days and had plenty of time for my mind to wander. I found myself thinking about connections. Then, as I reflected back on my classes last week, I thought about trains, snap cubes, paperclip chains, popcorn strings, and other things that are connected. After returning home late last night, I thought more about connections as I held my son's hand on the way to the bus stop. So, it seems only fitting that we write about connections.
Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
I've been thinking about connections with other people -- some lasting, some severed:
ReplyDeleteHow We Learn What We Know
By Steven Withrow
“A weed high mellows,
man. A crack high crazes,”
says Brian-Thirteen
thwapping his cigs pack
like a recalcitrant rat
on a bigger open palm
than Brian-Twelve had
last year playing G.I. Joe.
inside his dad’s toolshed.
When he was Brian-Twelve,
we built a rebel fortress
out of wind-downed branches
and caught in conquest mode
biked a truck-rutted road
that ran to a construction site
to scavenge metal rods
we fashioned into swords.
“My brother’d buy us beers,”
resumes beat-poet Brian
as though he’s grown up
on the street, not out here
among scrubby subdivisions.
“Fuckin’ August, fuckin’ school.”
He swats away a horsefly
from his white-blond crewcut,
the perfect prepubescent punk.
“It’s all junk.” He spits a wad
of god-knows-what, raps
his rat pack shuffle-time
against his dirty Misfits shirt.
“It’s all about to end, man,
end.” I nod. I look up ahead:
I see the sky. I do not see my friend.
Copyright 2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
I always feel insecure about my poetry but I love this topic so am trying to be brave and post without anguish!
ReplyDeleteA Family Tree
The eyes looking back in the mirror at me are Grandpa Milt’s,
Brown ringed with rainy day blue.
I warm the breakfast plates, not in the oven as Grandma Lois always did
But in the microwave. Still I cannot let hot pancakes sit on a cold dish.
And some days my fingers type “I swan,” and “truth be told,” words I heard so often from my Missouri grandpa’s lips.
When five bucks drops in the homeless man’s hat, it’s my dad’s hand tossing it there.
And that handwritten note sent now and again is my mother’s,
Though my penmanship will never be Palmer method perfect like hers.
Outside my study window today,
the katsura tree spins its leaves Rumplestiltskin gold,
And smells of cotton candy and puts me in mind of roots,
dug deep.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteKirby, your anguish was unwarranted. Good job!
ReplyDeleteI approached this stretch from a slightly different angle:
ReplyDeleteI've
been
linkedin
redroomed
facebooked
goodreadsed
goggleplused
jacketflapped
livejournaled
kickstarted
classmated
twittered
youtubed
flickered
gmailed
texted
i-med
into
mind
numb
ing
o
b
l
i
v
i
o
n.
© Carol Weis 2011
Steven ~ your poem sounds like the makings of a verse novel, and Kirby, yours rings so true, as I see my mom's reflection more and more as I walk through my days. A woman who always warmed her plates in the oven. ♥
ReplyDeleteConnections
ReplyDeleteMy hairdresser and I talk about the weather.
We have nothing in common until
we begin critiquing the Twilight movie.
Then how our voices rise and fall!
A woman on a plane to Chicago
tells me the difference between
the roll of the waves in Lake Michigan
and the movement of waves in the Pacific.
I was born in yet another state,
but my mother's father was a sheep rancher
in Wyoming, and my birthfather's father
was a sheep rancher in Montana.
When I move to Bountiful, Utah,
my best friend moves to Cleveland.
She tells me how surreal it feels
in a new place, like living a story.
I shiver inside, knowing it, too—
how the trees are all wrong.
And so we touch and surprise,
like God reaching out from his
leisurely cloud to shock Adam's finger.
How alike we all are! How alike
the grass in Korea, in Nigeria,
in California. And how utterly
strange it all is. We rise and we fall,
like voices, like waves, like a story,
like sheep grazing on hills, eating
the ordinary alien green-gold grass.
--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved
Kirby: "the katsura tree spins its leaves Rumplestiltskin gold" -- brilliant!
ReplyDeleteCarol: Your fine poem is the shape of a quill pen; a subtle suggestion to start communicating on paper again?
Kate: I'm dumbstruck by this -- what a tour de force...and your perfect, perfect last line (wish I'd written that)!
Steve--Thank you! Your Brian-12/Brian-13 was heart-wrenching. Nice crewcut!
ReplyDeleteRunning late, as usual...
ReplyDeleteShip to Shore
you came
in a rush
of baby blood
delirium and pain,
wrapped inside a glossy sheathe
like fingers dipped in wax—
a tiny boat, a wayward ship,
en route to wayward shores.
then nose to nose I touched you—
your downy head, your pillow chest
your tiny petal feet,
your button fists and tulip mouth
your breath the month of May,
your baby lips like clipper ships
on salty, snow-kissed seas,
your butter-skin and blooming cheeks,
your tiny wrists in lacy cuffs
of silk and froth and foam—
you’re moonlight in the harbor,
you’re warm brown loaves of bread—
and deep inside your doughy ship,
that stowaway is me.
Beautiful, Julie. I read this through three times just for the sound of it, but the meaning is wonderful too.
ReplyDeleteAN UNBREAKABLE CONNECTION
ReplyDeleteFrom Slave ships
to lashings
to lynchings
to bashings.
From Hymnal singing,
to god praising,
to broom jumping,
to roof raising.
From Past to present
to dignity within
I'm proud to be related
to my own kin.
(c) Charles Waters 2011 all rights reserved.